


do you feel real?

by dinosaurchestra



Series: ison [1]
Category: The Stanley Parable
Genre: Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Post-Canon, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-19
Updated: 2019-04-19
Packaged: 2020-01-16 14:37:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,105
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18523564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosaurchestra/pseuds/dinosaurchestra
Summary: They are violent, when it happens, a lot of the time.The Narrator’s touch is sharp, very much like a syringe.“Player characters don’t show any emotion,” Stanley says from underneath him.The needle presses at his thigh. “That’s assuming you’re important to the storyline.”





	do you feel real?

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Czy czujesz się prawdziwym?](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535288) by [Regalia92](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Regalia92/pseuds/Regalia92)



They are violent, when it happens, a lot of the time.

The Narrator’s touch is sharp, very much like a syringe.

“Player characters don’t show any emotion,” Stanley says from underneath him.

The needle presses at his thigh. “That’s assuming _you’re_ important to the storyline.”

-

“I want to kill myself,” Stanley says to the air, like the statement is one of a dessert recipe or reciting a poem. His legs, outfitted in skinny jeans that the Narrator says he looks good in for Stanley being twenty six despite the fact that the Narrator kept Stanley twenty six for eight years inside the Parable before it glitched, hang off the kitchen counter.

The Narrator turns from where he stands, chopping vegetables. The eyes on his neck blink to an eldritch symphony. “There aren’t any bridges around the countryside, I hope you know."

Stanley tilts his head and the knife lands just by his collarbone.

-

They’re walking, in a park. The Narrator has a turtleneck on and Stanley’s wearing a yellow sweater and they are pretending to be normal with hands locked and smiles polished.

The Narrator points to a rosebush. Stanley inclines his head in questioning.

“If I hadn’t abducted you, all those years ago, do you think you’d be flourishing like those flowers?”

-

The Narrator’s hands are cold but his arms are warm. Stanley slips into them like he would an old sweater, shirtless in the morning, a five o’ clock shadow kissing at his jaw as the light filters through the blinds and his alarm goes off to get up. He’s made dimly aware of this by the Narrator’s seventh arm that curls around his waist, drowsily pulling the other closer, Stanley’s back against the other’s chest.

"Stay.”

It’s gritted out, voice full of fog. “I have work today.”

“As if you want to go, Stanley?” Stanley sinks back into the sheets and the Narrator leans, watching him with all four hundred and twenty seven grey eyes, waiting for the employee’s answer.

The other simply reiterates. “I am tired of your games. I have work today.”

“Mm.” The Narrator runs the statement over in his head, checking for errors or inaccuracies. He can’t find any. He rises to kiss Stanley as he gets dressed and hears the disgust, hears the discomfort in the man’s click of the tongue. The Narrator wholly luxuries himself in it. “Be safe, won’t you? It’d be a shame if something happened to you. I love you, you know.”

He helps Stanley fix his tie when Stanley doesn’t need him to.

-

As a birthday present from the Narrator, Stanley opens a gift - wrapped box to find a printed piece of paper.

It has a web url on it.

Stanley opens the file and is greeted with the raw tape of his wife and unborn child on an operating table that he dimly recognizes as the same one used to implant the Parable technology.

He shuts it off before they start the dissection.

-

“You are so frail,” murmurs the Narrator, “in my hands. I could crush you, like a delicate flower. You’d be so beautiful.”

Limply, Stanley looks at him from where he sits next to him on the couch looking at Flat Earth conspiracy websites on Tor for fun. The movie they are watching is something American and blockbustery. “Do you get off to that, mate?”

The Narrator pulls him onto his lap. The film’s volume is turned down low. “I didn’t give you conditional immortality for nothing, Stanley.”

-

“Stanley,” the Narrator calls, airy.

Stanley drifts over the stairs, lopsided and lackadaisical and a lovely husband to a corpse, to where the deity sits in his study in front of his computer. The front page of the browser doesn’t register.

“That is my name, yes.”

“They’re still reporting about you, my dear.”

He brandishes his eyes on a new article from the Sunday Times about _a new inquiry launched into the missing case of Stanley [...] and [REDACTED]. Investigators, after a lead into the office company known as Partition Corp, have found reason to believe the disappearance was not a homicide-suicide on [...]’s part, but perhaps a botched robbery by a third - party gone wrong. Famous detective Nova Lowry, nicknamed 432 by the public for her prodigal numerical knowledge as a child, heads the new insight into the case._

The fact they haven’t given up hope yet in finding him sinks his heart worse than any Narrator’s siren - song.

-

They’re embracing, in the most technical word for it. (The context of affection ensavages them in a new definition they’d rather not get into. Stanley pants out a whine as the Narrator licks a strip up his collarbone and bites down, Stanley mewling as his toes curl and he’s straddled, gripping at the milk - white sheets.

“You’re so pretty,” the Narrator purrs into his neck, fervent with belief. Multiple fingers of his unbutton his cardigan to take it off as he grinds up shamelessly against the other, prying his legs open and his arms above his head with several hands. He can't help taunting the other's lack of control, always tipping him just over the edge, rolling his hips over and absolutely loving how Stanley tries to touch himself but can't, can't,

 _can't_ as the entity over him holds complete and sole direction. (Stanley's got stars in his eyes when the Narrator kisses him, like he's the centre of the world, like the sun in the sky. He genuinely thinks the Narrator loves him.) “You’re so pretty when you’re not _moving._ ”

“ _Ich denke, du bist widerlich_ ,” groans out Stanley. He lets his pale arm fall over eyes in confessional, briefly disobeying the Narrator's command with his other to reach up and flick off the last button.

-

Sometimes, the Narrator is holding Stanley (like a doll, like a puppet, all too fragile and incomprehensible as a real thing rather than Narrator’s lurid protagonist) in the early morning. They are everywhere, and they are nowhere. Stanley looks at him, and he thinks absently about the Narrator’s fingers, on the typewriter of the Parable’s entropy - terror, at the helm of the Beginner’s metaphysical horrors, curled around Stanley’s throat and constricting character.

He flutters his lashes, and the Narrator smiles. “What are you thinking about, Stanley?”

“You,” Stanley places, tensile, a perfected cadence. He rests his chin on the Narrator’s shoulder, lopsided curls framing a feline face. Staring up at him through long lashes, something the Parable didn’t take away from his appearance to only replace with an uncanny valley.

The Narrator hums, deep in his throat. Stanley imagines the deiform’s hands closing around his own.

**Author's Note:**

> fanon likes to depict stanarrator a lot lighter without taking into consideration the psychological mindfuck that is stanley both as a living human being / a fictional character as catalysed by the parable & his complicated relationship with the narrator who is both his other half (who killed stanleys other half & continued to mock him with it) & his demise so! heh (feedback appreciated uwu)
> 
> \+ i have a tsp sideblog over on tumblr @ escapending! come talk to me about stanarrator i beg of u


End file.
